Is it about my bookshelf
or is it about the depth behind all those books on...

There is someone out there
who reads all my poems...

From the futile war
remains tons of mutilated hearts...

Who is this guy, hiding in me,
who is so drowned in himself...

Truth is my home
Truth is flowers...

I left you
to stay with you...

There is just personal death
and collective continuum...

The shrine of loneliness
the involuntary prison of choice...

All the languages belong to the same arbour
the two outlet bugles...

"I love you for all the women I have not known"
(Je t’aime), Paul Eluard...

Thus Said a Child in Gaza::
I love...

Our death is intended
unless we prove otherwise...